Running to the back door, the cats immediately start meowing, standing on their back feet trying to unlock the door with hands they don't have and feigning their demise if not fed within the next few seconds. With forlorn eyes they stare at me and meow pitifully echoing feelings of emaciation and imminent death if their food bowl isn't filled with delicious food NOW!
Their meows carry the message of being on the verge of death if thou (me) dost not fill their bodies with nutrition sooner rather than later. To wait to eat another second is a crime against felinity. My name will become hated and despised on cat TV across the nation as one who cares little for the lives of fuzzy creatures in that I make them wait far too long to eat their evening meals. Should I wait another second or two, they would persuade me to believe their bodies will keel over, furry mounds of death dotting my floor and they'd expect me to live in misery the rest of my life knowing I allowed them to die within one minute of my arrival home.
The scratching continues, the meowing escalates to a crescendo, the eyes widen in sheer terror of possible death due to malnutrition and dehydration, so at 5:30:30 p.m. I drop everything, open a can of cat food, set it outside and watch as the human-like creatures begin eating without any hint of concern over the anxiety and guilt they've bestowed on me. They look up from their bowls through the back window and glance at me as if to say, "what do you want? We're eating."
